


those goddamn stars

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fluff, M/M, Sastiel (no shipping tho)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:11:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9908204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: wow I wrote this while extremely tired please excuse pretty much everything, it's just another little one shot type thing, from sam's perspective, watching unsurprised as cas and dean indulge in their profound bond with some hair-stroking and moment-sharing. nothing too dramatic, just a few words of subtle fluff  and a little existential contemplation (in that regard i have put a little of myself into this piece) so, enjoy :-)





	

**Author's Note:**

> nothing much to say...again, i wrote this while exhaustion relentlessly tormented my body and mind. actually, i might go take a nap. in an ideal world, by the time i wake up this'll have lots and lots of kudos !  
> but, if our eighth-grade english curriculums taught us anything at all, utopias do not exist. those kudos would probably come with a fee of one human soul or something. (then again, as our very own GED-educated dean winchester has proved, one human soul is genuinely worth it sometimes)  
> anyways ! hoping i won't have to give my soul in order to recieve kudos on this thing, but whatever.  
> also, i know this is about as short as it gets, but comments and constructive criticism are always welcome and recommended. if something about this resonates with you, or you have an idea for something that could make it so that it does resonate with you, hit me up and i'll definitely consider anything anyone has to say. that goes for all of my work.  
> so, have fun with this bit of psychological delirium! thank you and goodnight.

Cas touches his arm lightly, just barely grazing it.  
Sam understands immediately; he may not know the angel - have a _profound bond_ with him, necessarily - but his years of experience in his contradictorily unpredictable line of work have armed him with a brain able to decipher subtle concern.  
Cas, Sam thinks, Cas...it's almost as if he's incapable of feeling anything _other_ than subtle concern.  
He knows that's not true, that other components of Cas's multi-faceted and extremely capable character have been revealed to both him and Dean through the course of their friendship; components such as insanity, shame, infatuation. Etc.  
Tonight, his brow furrows in something that could be classified under a broader version of the latter category. His brow always furrows. His brow always furrows, and he always squints, and cocks his head, like he's confused or doesn't approve or something. But, Sam guesses it's neither of these sensations that contort his face tonight, but rather a deep, emanating worry - because when Sam follows the invisible dashed line of Cas's vision, there is something (someone) that (...who) is very clearly worth worrying about.  
It's Dean. While Cas and Sam lean against the hood of the heat-absorbent jet black pigmentation of the impala, the missing member of Team Free Will sits cross-legged, like he's meditating or something else hippyish - in the middle of a dark paint-splotch of what looks like really (Sam cringes) itchy meadow, just...sitting there. Just sitting there, his posture poising his head so that it's rigidly facing the rest of the dusky forest in front of him. They'd stopped here to get a beer, and so Dean could stretch before they got back on the road, and while Sam and Cas fulfill these notions, Dean seems interested in nothing of the sort. Again, he thinks blatantly, he's not talking (even if he was that’d probably be even more worrisome than the alternative; he'd be talking to _trees_ ) or even drinking (which Sam is admittedly glad about, he drinks all the time and all it does is make him more painfully stoic); he simply stares ahead of him into the pitchy nothing, the evergreens wavering in his peripheral vision. Neither Cas nor Sam can actually see his expression, but the taller, younger brother assumes that it is pinched into the poker-faced solemnity that usually condemns it.  
Funny, that his sibling acting against his normally sacrilegious personality could make him feel suspicious instead of glad, this... elusive nervousness, lapping against the lining of his stomach.  
"Maybe you should go talk to him." Cas gestures with his alcohol-holding hand towards Dean, his voice quaking unsteadily (this is merely out of late-in-the-night-ness and proper eavesdropping etiquette, Sam thinks) between a hoarse whisper and guttural monotone.  
Sam adjusts the distribution of his weight, from right to left foot and then spreading his mass equally, legs shoulder-length apart. He’s curious, all right, but it’s the kind of curiosity that only stands to be satisfied by sheer reflection and proof of his accurate hypothesis. He kind of wants to let Dean continue to be weird, if not for any other reason than just because he wants to see what happens.  
“I’m…okay, actually.”  
“Why? Doesn’t he look…disturbed? To you?” Sam snorts and leans back against the supportive alloy of the car.  
“If only because he looks a little different, then yeah. But he seems fine just to be where he is, man.”  
The angel purses his lips and narrows his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek – a habit he probably picked up from Dean himself. “I don’t know…”  
Sam tries again. “Well, maybe _you_ should go talk to him. If I interrupt him he’d probably get on me for disrupting a psychological epiphany or something. You go up there, he’ll probably be okay with _you_.” The younger Winchester isn’t sure why he says it, but for the love of God, it’s honest. Most of the time he feels like an eight-year-old pigtailed girl crying at a sign atop a treehouse that reads “no girls allowed”, enclosing his family exclusively inside its green canopy and wooden boards.  
Again, Cas cocks his head to one side, and tentatively steps forward towards the subject of his apprehension, delicately balancing his beer on the impala behind him.  
Sam watches as he stalks awkwardly (he’s undeniably accustomed to flying fucking _everywhere_ , even a few feet in front of him) towards his best friend, and relaxes with a nonchalant I-told-you-so echoing in his mind as the human gladly accepts his company. Dean doesn’t turn his head, but he does nod, still facing the same onward direction as he was before. He even pats the ground beside him, and Sam can suddenly _feel_ the nonchalant I-told-you-so metastasize into envy in the same place that the nervousness was, before. He inhales and lets it go, because he’s Sam fucking Winchester and he’s not about to let himself be a pussy over something like this _totally_ hetero relationship between his (overcompensating) brother and (genderless) seraph, he’s going to let them do their thing and not question it, even though it’s questionable. He restricts himself to just watching, and as he watches, he forcefully eradicates the jealousy and all its traces; and replaces it with its absolute adversary, with gratitude, because he’s thankful that Dean has someone to be weird with, even if it isn’t Sam. It usually is, which is a little comforting, he supposes – but right now, Sam can tell that his brother is fine, with where he is and who he’s with. They’ve been over it before: sometimes they get sick of each other, and Sam understands, even if he also understands that this is less of a negligence for one person and more of a longing for another.  
He looks up at the stars submerged in the twilight above him; stars, because he rarely has the time to notice them, have always made him more of a drama-queen, more sentimental, than he is. As if on cue, right when the twinkling clandestinity of the sky begins to overwhelm him, he hears words wafting in from several yards in front of him, words crafted by minds that belong to bodies that have voices that he knows better than the back of his hand.  
He can barely make them out – it seems as though the night-sounds prevent him from getting the softer-said ones – but he can make out enough. He hears without really making a solid effort to, because now that the fleeting moments of worry and envy are gone their absence has supplied his muscles with lazy serotonin and with it, a chemical existential contentedness that he only has the opportunity to welcome but once an _era_ or so. But, he continues to listen anyway, because some instinct in his subconscious takes the slow sentences and converts them into lullabies - songs that give him peace just because they’re sung by people he loves. He lists their lyrics in the space behind his eyelids.  
Dean, breaking his patient and uncharacteristic nirvana and turning his head to absorb Cas’s proximity, pronouncing sluggishly _Hey, buddy._  
Cas, half-smiling, melancholic wisdom adorning his refined facial features: _Is everything alright? Are you suffering some sort of subjective crisis?_  
Dean, his voice bubbling over like he’s going to laugh but his body being too tranquilly exhausted to even chuckle, saying _No, I’m fine, I really am. I was just thinking._  
 _Penny for your thoughts?_  
 _I was just wondering, y’know, how everything can be so…beautiful, and I don’t even pay attention to it, usually._  
 _Humans were built to take things for granted, Dean._  
 _I know, but I’m starting to think that – that maybe it’s time to stop, I guess._  
Cas sits up straighter and joins Dean in looking north, into nothing in particular.  
 _Really?_  
 _Yeah…really._  
Sam lifts his eyes to where they are looking, and recognizes that yeah, it is beautiful; the serene atmosphere of the woodsy rest-stop is intoxicating.  
When he looks back down at the two of them, they’re still admiring it, the only change being that Cas’s right hand is in Dean’s hair, languidly pulling the sandy strands through his fingers rhythmically and adoringly. They look good together, Sam notes; you could tell even if you didn't know them that what they have - this thing between them that makes it so that consolation and codependence comes from a few fond dialogical exchanges and fingers played across hair, whether it is an inherently profound bond or something much more complex - will always be there.  
Dean lets him do it, doesn’t even tense up; and as Sam takes finishes off his beer in unsurprised (if slightly awed) acknowledgement, he thanks whatever’s out there, whatever’s in the goddamn _stars_ he had just had his eyes on – for good friends, and good beer, and clichés and pitstops, and for the humble loveliness of even temporary satisfaction. As soon as a couple minutes from now, they could be back on the road, but for now he just crinkles the empty can in his hand and thanks whatever’s in the goddamn _stars_.


End file.
